Morbus
by punkchick551
Summary: Rating due to Suicide. Character death. Title Latin again


'Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Have I really sunk this low? Jesus Christ. Fuck it.' Sara whispered to herself. She moved the gun around in her hands. 'Dammit Sara! You haven't sunk this low. You always were this low. You're too scared to tell Nick how you feel. Too caught up to ever correct Grissom, too antisocial, too goddam caught up in your work, too ugly.'  
  
The tears started to come.  
  
'No one likes you. No one wants you. No one. . .shit. You have no life. Nothing besides work. Fuck.'  
  
She grabbed a pencil and a pad of paper, and started writing. She wrote, basically until the whole pad was filled up. Then she grabbed the gun off the table and put it to her temple.  
  
'Bye.'  
  
She took off the safety and pulled the trigger. The room went from clean to looking like a balloon from 'It' exploded in it. A Bloodbath.  
  
***  
  
'Neighbours heard a gun go off, called the cops.'  
  
'Any name yet?'  
  
'Nope. Face blown to bits. No photo ID on her.'  
  
'Neighbours know her?'  
  
'Naw. She was like a ghost.'  
  
'Ok. Thanks Brass.' Grissom said, then he turned his gaze to Nick. 'You start analyzing. I'll take the pictures.' Then turned and walked off, camera around his neck.  
  
Nick followed his boss into the blood-covered room.  
  
'Holy shit!' He muttered. One thing caught his gaze first; a pad of paper in a Ziploc bag. He walked over to it, dusted for fingerprints, then opened it, took out the paper, dusted again, then started reading:  
  
Dear Nick, or Grissom or Catherine or Warrick or whoever's reading this. You must think I'm pretty low; killing myself and all. But you can't say you didn't see it coming, at least that's how I felt. Bu t you know when you get to that point where you don't think that living has a point anymore? That's what it's been like my whole life. Living is pointless. I've been surrounded by death, even when I was a kid. When I was a teenager I was raped. When I was in my 20's I was constantly abused. Now; well Hank, then I just can't take it anymore. It's not that life's a horrible thing. Hell, for some it's probably great. It's just mine was retarded. I always felt like the underdog; the ugly duckling. You know, the misfit. Tell everyone else that works the graveyard shift that its not their faults. Also, Grissom: Sorry if I confused you in any way. When I was younger, I had a crush on you. But I got over that quickly. Now I look up to you as the dad I never had, really. Mine wasn't all that great. Warrick: Thanks for being the big brother. You were great. You had a shoulder to cry on, and you were always there for me. You helped me get through the thing with Hank and the explosion. This wasn't your fault. If I did decide not to do this, it would probably be because of you. Thanks. Catherine: Just thanks. We got off to a rough start, and we're still a bit rough around the edges. I'm really sorry about Eddie, and tell Lindsey she's doing great. I took it a lot worse when I lost mine, and I wasn't even in a drowning car. Greg: You are awesome. Sure, I complained about your music, but the lab wouldn't be the lab without it. You are quick and reliable, and you can run circles around Hodges any day of the week, with your legs bound and you on your back. Ecklie: Fuck off. I hate you. I always have and I always will. Same with you, Hodges. Nick: I love you. Literally. I had a crush on you the first time we met, and my feelings grew. I loved our shameless flirting, and our indestructible friendship. You always told be how you felt about what I was doing, whether it be good or bad, and we just had this connection (or so I felt). God. It's so much easier writing it down. I would play over in my head what I would say to you, to tell you. I never really got around to it though. I wish we would of went somewhere. Before I did this. But I just had to do it. I'm sorry.  
  
-Sara.  
  
***  
  
Once again. I don't do happy-go-lucky stories. And I'm not a trucker, though I do swear a lot. 


End file.
